


The Doctor and the Mailman

by bongbingbong



Series: The Doctor and the Mailman [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Autistic McCoy, Autistic Spock, Bad Parent Sarek (Star Trek), M/M, Some description of Old West Doctoring, complicated family dynamics, meltdowns, shitty historical accuracy probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26741143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongbingbong/pseuds/bongbingbong
Summary: Spones Western AU. McCoy is an overworked small town doctor in a town full of outlaws. Spock drives the mail van, but has a secret past that everybody seems to hate him for. The two of them get to know each other.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Series: The Doctor and the Mailman [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965889
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67





	The Doctor and the Mailman

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this mostly as a reason to indulge my love for DeForest Kelley westerns, but actually I'm invested now and it's going to be a little series. There, I've said it, so I have to do it now!

Doctor McCoy never thought he would have been grateful for a daytime thunderstorm - especially not the day he arrived in a new place. He had no idea about where the leaks were, or if he was going to get flooded during the night. Hell, he didn’t even know if he’d manage to get to sleep tonight with all the howling wind and rain rattling the door on its hinges, but he was grateful nonetheless. The stormclouds rolling in had meant that the little welcome gathering for the town’s new doctor - himself - had been put off, which meant that he was free to unpack his sparse belongings and settle into the little cabin he had been provided for his surgery. Alone.

He drew his jacket a little more tightly across his chest as he waited for the stove to warm the room up, and tried to bustle around as much as he could to keep moving. The place was drafty, which was yet another mark against it, and while there were no drips coming from the roof just yet, a superstitious voice in the back of his mind said that there would be, the second he let down his guard. He was flagging though; the long journey here was beginning to catch up with him. That, coupled with the thought of the impending repairs he’d need to make, was making him a little weary.

It wasn’t that the town was outright hostile. In fact, everyone he’d checked in with and introduced himself to during the day had seemed very welcoming indeed. But there was a certain wariness to the people, an inherent mistrust of strangers that didn’t seem so much a small town suspicion as it did the product of people who had something to hide. Having said that though, this was now the fourth town McCoy had moved his practice to, and he was beginning to think that his incompatibility wasn’t a fault with the towns so much as a fault with himself. There were only so many Sheriffs one could butt heads with in a lifetime. Not that he’d butted heads with the last Sheriff so much as thrown a punch at his nose. Bastard had it coming. Or maybe he hadn’t. McCoy was too tired to think about it in any depth.

He didn’t realise he’d zoned out until the whinny of horses outside snapped him out of it. Peering through the windows, he could make out a small wagon coming to a halt outside. Looked like a mail wagon, but he couldn’t be sure, it was hard to tell through all the rain. Whoever it was, he didn’t envy the poor bastard.

*

Spock was drenched to the bone, and had been so for the better part of the day - it felt like the rain clouds had followed him all the way here. His limbs felt like they’d frozen in place, and he fell more than stepped from his perch in the driver’s seat. Which town was he in again? The shape of Old Pete appeared in the doorway of the post office, and Spock nodded, mentally reorienting himself on the map. 

“Well hurry the hell up, ain’t got all day,” said Pete, then disappeared back inside. Spock watched him retreat, and he might have had to fight a twinge of irritation, if he’d had the energy to muster up the emotion. As it were, the logical thing was to get working. The faster he got the wagon unloaded, the faster he could find some shelter for his horses. The first crate nearly sent him toppling, his legs scrambling for purchase in the mud churning at his feet. However, he righted himself and staggered through to the storage area of the post office. The room was dark, the windows mostly blocked from haphazard stacks of parcels and empty boxes. Old Pete had never believed in maintaining a sorting system - he just seemed to know where things were. Spock didn’t like it, but by this point he also knew enough not to mention it. He focused on stacking his own crates, two high, edges perfectly aligned next to each other, on the far side of the storage room. His head was swimming while he worked, and the precision of his placement helped to focus his mind, as did the pain in his hands as the edges of the wooden boxes cut into his freezing fingers. When he was done, he stepped back to catch his breath, and promptly blacked out.

*

Somebody was pounding on his window. McCoy had finally gotten the room up to a decent temperature and was about to settle in with a cup of coffee, so there was no small amount of eye-rolling before he opened the door to see what all the fuss was about. There was a disturbingly tall old man outside his house, with a long, scraggly beard and his arms crossed.

“Mailman’s fainted in the packin’ room,” he said, pointing towards the building in question. It wasn’t hard for McCoy to put two and two together. Poor bastard indeed. He hadn’t gotten a cart to transport anyone in, and it looked like he’d probably be drenched just crossing to the other side of the main street, but he’d deal with those problems when he came to them.

“Alright, let’s have a look.”

McCoy ran after the old man, cursing as his shoes immediately filled with water, slipping in the muddy street.

The man in question was indeed sprawled on the floor of the mail room, surrounded by a small puddle of water. He was drenched and shivering, his black hair plastered to his skull in tangles.

“Goddamnit,” muttered McCoy under his breath, “here, you’ll have to help me get him back to my place, gotta get him dry-”

“I ain’t helpin’ nothin’, just get him the hell outta here,” said the old man from the doorway, his arms still crossed over his chest.

“And make sure he don’t die.”

McCoy took a deep breath and knelt beside the man, biting back a growl of frustration as he felt his chilled skin.

“You know the best way to make sure he doesn’t die? Helping me get him across the god damned road. It’s a walk across the damn street! What’s wrong with you?”

Instead of shamed, the old man had the gall to look offended at McCoy’s reproach.

“He ain’t the kind of guy you wanna be tanglin’ with. You’re the doc so it’s fine, but I ain’t comin’ anywhere near him. He ain’t right in the head.”

“Is he dangerous?” said McCoy, eyeing the trembling man. 

“Might be. Lot’sa people say a lotta different things about him. None of ‘em good.”

“But has he ever actually done anything?” 

‘He’ was waking up, his eyes clouded with confusion as they blinked open. His first reaction was to struggle out of McCoy’s grasp, scooting backwards out of his reach. He held McCoy’s gaze for several moments before he looked up at the old man, and frowned.

“I apologise for my intrusion here,” he said, “I will be going now.”

“I hope you don’t mean you’re planning on hopping on that wagon again,” said McCoy. The man simply raised an eyebrow at him.

“I cannot imagine where else I would go.”

“‘Course you can’t,” grumbled McCoy, shooting the old man a glare. The man in question shrugged, turning to leave.

“See to those horses outside,” said McCoy, grabbing the strange man’s arm and slinging it across his shoulders so he could help him up, “can’t have mail without your horses. You can at least do that can’t you?”

“The horses ain’t the problem, no,” said the old man coolly. McCoy swallowed his angry retort - it wouldn’t do to start another fight on his first day here - and adjusted the stranger’s weight against himself, winding his arm around his waist. 

“Where do you propose we go then?” said the man, who was - despite his attempts at normalcy- leaning on him _very_ heavily.

“My place. I’m a doctor.”

The man considered this information.

“Acceptable. Let us go.”

“Acceptable my ass, you don’t have a choice,” grumbled McCoy, and together the two of them stumbled their way back over the main street.

*

Spock - as McCoy had discovered his name was - had insisted on trying to undress himself. McCoy sat on a chair and watched him fumble at his shirt buttons with numb fingers for exactly ten seconds before he rose, swatting his hands away and finishing the job for him. Spock looked pointedly at the ceiling while he did this, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“I’m a doctor, you know,” said McCoy, helping Spock extricate his sluggish limbs from the wet sleeves of the shirt. 

“You confirmed as such upon our meeting,” said Spock, “why is it relevant?”

“Because I’ve seen it all at this point, there’s no need to get all prissy on me about this,” grumbled McCoy, “you’re makin’ it weird for both of us.”

“Unfortunately, I am told that tends to be one of my shortcomings,” replied Spock. McCoy sighed while he undid his belt buckle and the buttons on his underwear. To his surprise, once he was undressed Spock bent down to pick up his wet clothes.

“Stop worrying about all that, jesus christ, sit _down!”_ said McCoy, grabbing Spock by the arm and sitting him down on his bed. He grabbed a towel and began rubbing his skin dry, hoping he would get some warmth back into that chilled skin. Spock sat quietly as he went about his work, though he suspected he was obedient out of weariness more than anything else. His head was beginning to droop forwards, and McCoy took the opportunity to roughly towel dry his hair, forcing down a grin at the way the man’s short cropped hair stuck out when he was done. Finally, he gave Spock a loose nightshirt and wrapped him in every blanket he’d brought with him. By that point, Spock was tired enough that he submitted to McCoy’s manhandling quietly, his eyes sliding shut. His skin was now burning hot to the touch, which was to be expected, all things considered. McCoy sighed and settled in for a long night. He’d have to boil some water. He’d have to hang up Spock’s clothes to dry. He’d have to - McCoy’s nose wrinkled in disgust as the sensation of his muddy, wet socks returned, making his skin crawl. That was the first thing to fix. He went to change, sparing another glance at Spock. He was fast asleep, pale save for a slight flush high in his cheeks. He watched the man sleep as he pulled on dry clothes, noting the oddly precise haircut, the unusually angular face. He certainly looked a little out of place, but that didn’t explain the old man’s animosity towards him. He’d been so polite, too. Maybe too polite. McCoy had been attacked by patients before though, multitudes of times, and he just couldn’t see the odd man who had been worried about leaving wet clothes on his floor being a killer. That, and the old man at the post office did seem like a real asshole.

*

Spock must have had an iron constitution. Or been some sort of freak of nature. That was the only way McCoy could explain away the fact that he was standing in front of him right now, fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes, apparently fresh as a daisy. He wished he knew where the hell he’d managed to dredge up the energy from - McCoy had spent the night dozing on and off in a chair, and had finally fallen asleep sometime just before dawn. He’d told himself it was to keep an eye on things in case Spock’s condition worsened during the night, but really it was because of a niggling little fear in the back of his mind that suggested perhaps the second he let his guard down he might be in danger. Apparently he had been proven wrong, and now he was the one who was groggy and tired as the morning light woke him to the sound of Spock making coffee.

His neck was killing him as he gingerly unfolded himself from the chair he’d fallen asleep in. Spock brought him over a cup of his own coffee, and then stood back a bit, watching as McCoy wrapped his hands around the mug and blew on the hot liquid.

“I apologise if my actions were inappropriate, but I have nothing with which to thank you for your hospitality, and the placement of your coffee pot indicated that-”

“S’fine,” mumbled McCoy, waving the apology away. Mostly he just didn’t think he could deal with as many words as Spock managed to put into his sentences, this early in the morning. Spock nodded, then headed for the door.

“Thank you for your help doctor, it is much appreciated,” said Spock, inclining his head slightly. McCoy watched as he left, bewildered and not quite awake enough yet to figure out how to reply. He watched as Spock went to retrieve his wagon, and was staring out of the window long after he’d left, as the main street began to fill with people. 

The bed had been made, and the nightshirt Spock had been wearing folded neatly and set atop the sheets. In fact, the entire place looked like it had been surreptitiously tidied and put in order - nothing too out of the ordinary, but McCoy’s things were much more neatly arranged than they had been yesterday. He laughed to himself. Perhaps the rest of the town were afraid of a rogue neat freak sneaking into their houses at night and doing all their cleaning for them. 

First thing’s first. He had to go introduce himself to theMayor, and probably whoever else he happened to run into on the way there. McCoy sighed and went to drag out his shoes from where he’d kicked them under the bed. Upon kneeling to retrieve them though, he noticed a little leather-wrapped rectangle, about the size of his hand. That was odd. He undid the little laces holding it shut, and realised it was a little book. The pages were still slightly damp from the rain, and between each page was pressed a different wildflower or leaf. Some of them were translucent with age, others were still a little soft, not having entirely dried yet. It must have been Spock’s, although he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he was doing with a book full of pressed flowers. He was an odd enough man, he probably had his own explanations. McCoy carefully placed the book at the back of the bench that separated the two sides of the room, behind all of his medical equipment, so that it wouldn’t accidentally get knocked off while it dried. If the thought of inviting Spock in again under slightly better circumstances excited him, that should be understandable really. After all, the man seemed quite fascinating.

*

As it turned out, McCoy really didn’t need to be worried about fitting in in town. The Mayor was barely a Mayor, the sheriff barely a sheriff - all of them seemed to be in on some sort of private agreement that the town ought to be allowed to continue without any kind of lawkeeping. A kind of halfway station for criminals and outlaws to pass through unchecked, provided they had the money to pay for that kind of a welcome. McCoy had immediately begun to draft plans for hauling his ass the hell out of there, because a week in to his new posting he had already dealt with three bullet wounds, one horrendously broken leg from a botched getaway (“got stuck try’na jump a fence my _ass_ , kid”), and a frankly ridiculous number of infected hand and knuckle injuries, because apparently being an outlaw also made you a fucking idiot. As it was, his skills were quickly prized very highly, and he found himself with at least a reasonable amount more leverage in arguments than he’d had that first day with Old Pete from the post office.

Today, it was two simultaneous bullet wounds. McCoy didn’t know how he was supposed to operate on two people at the same time, as the two rivals’ friends seemed to want him to do, but he allowed the curses to bounce off him as he focused his attention on the task at hand. There wasn’t enough room to fit everyone in his own cabin, so they’d currently cleared off the two tables in the general store, and the whole disorientation of the situation was only adding to the confusion.

Man number one, a stranger in town, had copped a bullet through the leg. Which was a hell of a poor shot on the part of man number two, Jamie-Something, who was currently biting on a piece of leather, struggling against the agony of the bullet that was currently still lodged in his side. McCoy was currently fighting a losing battle to get number two to stay still while he tried to locate the bit of metal. Even with two of his friends holding him down, the boy seemed unable to stop from bucking against the pain of it.

“Hold still for me kid, it’s alright, you’re gonna be alri- ah!” McCoy had to draw his hand back as Jamie made a sound of distress in the back of his throat, jerking away from him once more. McCoy gritted his teeth and put a hand on the kid’s head, smoothing his hair back.

“It’s alright, you haven’t damaged anything too bad, and you’re not gonna die. It’s gonna hurt like hell, but I promise you, once it’s over it’s _over_. Take some deep breaths, that’s the way-”

“Why don’t you sing him a lullabye too while you’re at it, don’t matter you’ve got George _dyin’_ over here,” growled one of the men from the other side of the room. McCoy’s other patient had passed out a few minutes ago, and his friend was irate. McCoy had intentionally tethered him to the spot by asking him to hold a cloth to the wound to stop the bleeding.

“I’m gettin’ there,” said McCoy, as calmly as he could manage, “you ready for me to do this for real, kid?”

Jamie squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. Keeping on hand on the kid at all times, McCoy went in again, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. 

“Alright kid, hang in there.”

There it was! His forceps closed around something hard and small, and McCoy pulled out a twisted piece of metal with a sigh of relief. He felt Jamie tense suddenly, then go completely limp as he finally, blessedly, thankfully, fell unconscious. 

Sewing him up turned out to be as much of a chore as he’d expected, with the culprit from earlier keeping up a steady stream of expletives aimed at him and why he hadn’t started on his friend already, and how he was definitely about to die. McCoy didn’t need to be reminded that there was another man there suffering while he worked, the pounding of his heart in his ears and the uncomfortable prickling sensation of his shirt, glued to his back with nervous sweat, was more than enough of a reminder. 

Just as he was finishing up on his first patient, the door opened and his head snapped up, a shouted invitation to fuck right off ready on his lips. However, he locked eyes with Spock, who was carrying several boxes, standing in the doorway. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes flickered warily between the people in the room.

“I shall put these boxes down and be on my way. My apologies.”

Spock hurriedly set the boxes down, and McCoy didn’t miss the way his hand flexed, as though he wanted to straighten them up before stepping away smoothly. 

“Spock,” said McCoy, feeling the knot of stress in his chest begin to loosen at the sight of him, “thank god you’re here, I need your help.”

Something shifted in the dynamic of the room. Something in the air had stilled, a sudden tension that stretched between Spock and the others.

“I hope you don’t mean you need his help in dealin’ with George here,” said George’s friend. He wasn’t shouting anymore, instead his voice had gone low and dangerous. Jamie’s friends shifted nervously from foot to foot. McCoy saw red.

“I don’t know what the hell you guys think is going to happen if he gives you a hand, but the way I see it right now, I wouldn’t trust Jamie’s pals as far as I could throw them to help out right now when they’re responsible for that great big hole in his leg, and I need some god damned help! Or was all that hollering before just for show?” 

McCoy stood at a full head shorter than George’s friend, but he stood his ground, staring defiantly up at the other man. To his surprise, the friend didn’t address him. Instead, he turned his attention to Spock.

“You touch him, I’ll kill you,” he said. His eyes were narrowed and steady, and there was no question that he meant what he said.

“Spock,” said McCoy, a little breathless, “there’s water boiling on the stove. Pour a bowl of it and bring it over here, we’re going to get this guy cleaned up.”

Spock wavered for a moment, his eyes flickering around the room one more time. Without a word, he nodded, and went to fetch the water. McCoy sighed inwardly, his head beginning to throb in time with his heartbeat. 

“The rest of you, Jamie’s crew - get him the hell out of here,” he ground out, “don’t need more people crowdin’ the hell out of my work.”

The two men seemed stunned, and made no move to indicate that they’d heard.

“Get him the hell _out_!” snapped McCoy, and inwardly rolled his eyes as they finally scrambled to do as they were told. It had only been a couple of weeks, but this damned town was going to be the death of him, he knew it.

*

By the time George was sorted out, his irritable friend given very clear directions as to his care, and the general store returned to its previous state, McCoy’s headache was threatening to split his skull open. With the place finally empty and nothing more to be done, a wave of exhaustion blanketed him, weighing him down. There was a hand on his shoulder, and he blinked in confusion to find Spock standing next to him.

“You are unsteady on your feet. I believe you require rest,” said Spock quietly. McCoy sighed and nodded, letting Spock lead him out of the store. 

“Thanks for your help, by the way,” said McCoy, “sorry I kinda latched onto you there, I just needed - there just needed to be someone else in that room who wasn’t intent on starting an argument every two seconds.”

“It was my pleasure doctor, it was interesting to watch you at work.”

Interesting? Sure, okay.

The two of them paused outside the store. Night had fallen, and McCoy took a deep breath of cool air, closing his eyes momentarily as he let the breeze soothe away the lingering feeling of the overheated room. Spock didn’t let go of his shoulder, and McCoy allowed himself a moment of weakness to savour the gentle warmth of his hand. Then he opened his eyes, and stepped away.

“Buy you a drink? S’the least I can do after you helping me and all, and I’m no good at relaxing right after a surgery.”

Spock clasped his hands together, one hand squeezing the other.

“I cannot.”

McCoy tilted his head to the side in confusion.

“Don’t drink?”

Spock shook his head, “no, I am not… permitted. I have been told that my presence would make other patrons uncomfortable, so I do not enter.”

On any other night, McCoy might have let that one slide and just invited Spock over for something from his own liquor collection. Tonight though, his nerves were frayed and his patience had been worn thin.

“What the hell is it with these people and you? The hell have you done?”

“ _I_ have not done anything,” said Spock, and McCoy didn’t miss the emphasis there.

“What? Your brother do something? Your pa? Your wife?”

The corner of Spock’s mouth lifted at this last question, but he shook his head.

“My father is an unpleasant, dangerous, and unpredictable man. He is also not overly fond of me. As you can imagine, an enemy of your enemy-”

“That’s idiotic,” said McCoy, “come on.”

He took Spock by the elbow, and dragged him down to the saloon. They didn’t make it two steps into the building before the bartender, a squat young man with long, stringy hair sidled up to them, fidgeting with his cleaning cloth. His eyes darted around the room.

“You can’t be in here,” he hissed, his eyes drawn constantly to a half-open door on the level above them. The boss’s office, presumably.

“Don’t see no sign outside,” said McCoy, “now why don’t you let the two of us have a drink and we’ll be on our way?”

“No can do, Doc,” said the young man, “not with him here.”

Three things happened simultaneously. The door to the upstairs room opened, McCoy drew a deep breath and clenched his fist, and Spock grabbed a hold of McCoy by both arms and steered him swiftly out of the saloon, down the stairs, and in the direction of his cabin. 

In truth, McCoy was too weary for an altercation, and the fight quickly drained out of him as Spock led him back home. He let Spock open the door and push him in, and by then everything was getting a little fuzzy - he probably didn’t even need that nightcap that he’d mentioned. But then-

“If nobody in town wants you near ‘em, where the hell are you staying tonight? You’re not driving through the night are you?”

“No, tonight is scheduled as a rest stop. I will return to my wagon, which has enough room for me to-”

“You sleep in your _wagon_?”

“Only in towns that demonstrate hostility, such as-”

“No. Hell no. Come in Spock, I’m not having that.”

Spock hesitated, his hands coming together again, fingers twisting and pulling at each other while the rest of him remained perfectly still. McCoy kicked the door open wider.

“I’m not taking no for an answer. There’s a bed for patients and a bed for me, and there’s nobody in either right now so get in here.”

Spock followed and obediently sat down on the patient’s bed as directed, his eyes following McCoy’s movements as he stripped down to his underwear and sighed, rolling his shoulders and neck. He retrieved a bottle and two glasses from a storage chest, and poured the two of them a drink. McCoy sank into the chair across from him, sprawling across it with his legs stuck out in front of him. They clinked glasses, and McCoy downed his in one gulp, wincing slightly afterwards.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice coming out rough, “I needed that.”

“Your apology is not required,” said Spock, sipping at his own drink. It burned pleasantly across his tongue.

“Say, why d’you talk like that anyway?” said McCoy. This earned him a raised eyebrow from Spock.

“You are referring to my unconventional mode of speech?”

“Yeah, you could call it that.”

Spock, who was usually so still, _squirmed_ for a moment, holding the whiskey glass between two hands.

“You don’t have to talk about it if it’s upsettin’ to you,” said McCoy quickly, “I didn’t mean to pry-”

“No, it is a noticeable part of my personality. Your curiosity is understandable.”

“Still though-”

“I want to tell you,” said Spock, though he was unable to meet McCoy’s eyes anymore. A very faint pink tinge had spread across his cheeks.

“I ain’t the kind to judge, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Not so much that,” said Spock, “but I am afraid I don’t have a full explanation for you. My father is an extremely wealthy man, and had me educated privately by tutors as a boy. As a result, my… vocabulary and manner of speaking grew to emulate the texts that I studied more so than the people around me.”

He sighed - another crack in his sturdy facade. Staring into his glass, he continued.

“That was not all of it, however. My father realised what had happened too late - he had inadvertently created something of a social disaster in his son. I could never quite explain that the speech patterns I read in books made much more sense to me than any of the physical interactions I had as a child. Or have now, as a matter of fact.”

McCoy nodded slowly, “I think I know what you mean. It’s like everyone else got the memo ahead of time. Like you’re struggling to play catch up for somethin’ you don’t remember learnin’.”

Spock’s gaze snapped back up, and those brown eyes regarded him curiously.

“I did not anticipate your understanding,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah, well,” said McCoy, “that’s what doctors do, I suppose.” 

The two of them lapsed into silence then, McCoy humming softly as he poured himself another drink. He then paused, as something occurred to him.

“It’s okay to get comfortable, by the way. Can’t imagine you’re going to be sleepin’ in your shoes and socks.”

Spock relaxed imperceptibly, and he nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, and went about removing his own boots, jacket, vest, shirt, and trousers. By the time he was in his own underwear, he noticed with alarm that Doctor McCoy must have fallen asleep while he was undressing. His head was resting at what looked like a very uncomfortable angle. Yet the man was practically radiating exhaustion from the weary lines on his face to the shadowy smudges under his eyes. Spock considered calling his name. But he didn’t want to wake him. On the other hand, if he stayed in the chair he would surely wake up in pain. 

“Doctor McCoy?” said Spock. He didn’t stir.

“Doctor?”

Spock approached him and gingerly shook his shoulder. McCoy’s brow furrowed in a slight frown, his only response other than a soft exhale. Spock stood there, awkwardly staring at him for some time before making a decision. 

He hooked one arm under the doctor’s legs, and another one under his shoulders, and lifted. The doctor was a slight man, and he lifted him easily. 

“Sp’k?” said McCoy, his voice thick with sleep.

“I am simply ensuring that you make it to your bed before you decide to go to sleep,” said Spock. He deposited the doctor on his own bed, covering him to the waist with a blanket, and watched as he rolled over, curled on his side with his arms wrapped around his chest. He mumbled something that was lost to comprehension as he slipped back into sleep, his chest rising and falling evenly as he finally got some much needed rest.

*

In the morning, McCoy realised two things. First of all, Spock had taken his little book of flowers back without needing to be told about it. Second of all, he had left a little sprig of pale blue flowers in its place. Each flower had four petals, and was coloured yellow in the middle. They were quite charming. But as with last time, the house was slightly neater than he’d left it, and Spock himself was gone.

*

Almost exactly two weeks later, McCoy was visited by Mayor Tilley himself. Odd, given that the Mayor barely acted in any official capacity. Odd, and slightly disconcerting. The man had his best approximation of a winning smile plastered on his face, which set off alarm bells for McCoy immediately. Following that, he elbowed his way into McCoy’s cabin, despite his best attempts at keeping the interaction at the door.

“I have a matter of some sensitivity, y’understand,” said Tilley, eyeing the windows like he was afraid someone might be waiting outside. Unlikely - unless there was an emergency, and while there were no shortages of those in town - people tended to avoid McCoy like the plague.

“Well fire away Mayor,” said McCoy, doing his best to keep a calm demeanour. The Mayor laughed nervously, and glanced out the window again.

“It’s mail day,” said Tiley, “and you know what that means.”

McCoy frowned.

“You’re talking about Mr Spock?” 

“You catch on quickly. Figures you would, you’ve gotta be smart to be a doctor.”

McCoy focused on his breathing, already seeing this conversation going in a potentially very unpleasant direction.

“Get to your point, Tilley.”

“Alright. We like you, Doc. We need you. And Spock? Well, he’s a dangerous man. With dangerous connections. I would be mighty upset if you were to get hurt on account of him.”

“Who’s doing the hurtin’? You?”

The major laughed again, that vile, humourless laugh that he probably thought made him sound friendly. 

“I’d never even consider hurtin’ our Doctor McCoy! Hell naw, I’m just sayin’. Spock’s a dangerous man to associate with. So I just wanted to speak to you today, and let you know, it’ll be better if the two of you break off whatever it is you’ve got goin’ on here.”

“You’re tellin’ me in this town you’re gonna say who a man can and can’t have a friendly conversation with?”

McCoy could feel himself heating up, he could feel the buzzing sensation of anger mixed with anxiety rising in his chest, threatening to either choke him or shock him into action - neither of which was a desirable outcome.

“Now now doctor, I’d hardly call what the two of you have been doin’ a ‘friendly conversation,’ at this point, would you? Havin’ someone sleep over in your house is a pretty far step from a conversation, ain’t it?”

How did he know? Before McCoy had time to ponder this thought, the Mayor’s gaze slipped back towards the window, and he followed it. The mail wagon! McCoy tried to ignore the sudden hammering in his chest, and prayed Spock wouldn’t come by. As he looked, he noticed a man standing a little way away from the post office, smoking a pipe. He was doing his best to look nonchalant, leaning against a streetlamp. It was one of the Sheriff’s men, he was sure of it. He’d extracted a bunch of nasty splinters from his hand a few weeks ago.

There was another man too, casually crossing the street towards them. He was whistling, but his eyes never left Spock as he unloaded the mail wagon. Another man came into view, walking past McCoy's home, whistling as well. It was like these guys only had two cover moves to pick from. It didn’t really work when there were multiple men.

McCoy barely dared to breathe as Spock finished unloading the wagon, then looked directly over at him. He rummaged around in his pockets, pulling out a little jar about the size of his fist. It had a red ribbon tied around it.

“No,” whispered McCoy.

“I need you to understand how seriously we take your safety,” said the Mayor, as Spock began to make his way over, taking his hat off his head and twisting it between his hands. McCoy made his decision in a snap and bolted for the door, throwing it open and shouting.

“Spock! Get the hell out of here, it’s a-”

Strong hands grabbed him from behind, forcing him back inside. The door swung shut, and a sharp pain lanced through his elbow up to his shoulder as his arm was twisted behind him. The cold metal barrel of a gun was pressed into his neck.

“Don’t move,” said the Mayor, his breath hot and damp against his ear. McCoy tensed and shuddered against the sensation, his skin crawling as he watched the Sheriff’s three men move quickly and suddenly towards Spock. The gun pressed harder into his neck, and McCoy thrashed in the Mayor’s grip, all semblance of level headedness lost as he kicked and clawed and bit his way out. For a second, he was free. He kicked the door open, but froze at the heavy click of the gun being cocked. Tilley’s finger was on the trigger, but the gun was now pointed at Spock.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” said the Mayor, “assuming you figured I wouldn’t shoot you. But I will shoot him.”

Spock had frozen facing them, surrounded by the Sheriff’s three men. He took in the sight of McCoy and the Sheriff in the doorway, the gun, and the three men surrounding him - and he gave himself up. He stood on the spot and raised his arms, and allowed the Sheriff’s men to grab him, throw him to the ground, and proceed to kick him repeatedly. Blows landed on his back, on his stomach, his legs, and his arms, which he had automatically thrown up to protect his face. But he made no sound, and no other move to protect himself, save curling up against the assault. The attack didn’t last for long, and as if on cue, the Sheriff’s men disbanded, making their own separate ways down the main street once again. Tilley still had his gun pointed, and McCoy watched, horrified, as Spock pushed himself painfully to his feet, staggered over to his wagon, and drove it out of town.

“You bastard,” whispered McCoy through gritted teeth. Tilley patted him on the back, and it was all McCoy could do to stop himself from throttling the man.

“Stay the hell away from Spock. For both of your sakes, hope that he stays the hell away from you too. Hopefully wasn’t too difficult a lesson for you to learn.”

With that, Tilley left. When he reached the middle of the street, he bent down to pick up the little jar, which had fallen into the dirt. He held it up, seeing that McCoy was still watching.

“Fruit preserves. Looks like peaches.”

He pocketed it, chuckling to himself. McCoy stood on the spot until he knew the Mayor was gone, before he folded to the floor. He allowed himself five seconds to sob into the floorboards before picking himself up, smoothing down his jacket, and going to fetch his hat and saddle up. He’d be damned if he let Spock ride out by himself after all that, and the Mayor was an idiot if he thought otherwise.

*

It wasn’t hard to find Spock - there was only the one main road in or out of the town, and Spock himself wasn’t keeping too heavy a pace. When McCoy caught up to him, he was sat slumped in the driver’s seat, one arm curled around his side, his face a stony mask of determination. The movement of the wagon jostled him, and his face had a pinched look to it, like he was permanently wincing. McCoy brought his horse level with the wagon.

“Hey!”

Spock startled, then brought his horses to a halt. He watched as McCoy clambered up next to him, his gaze dispassionate.

“You have done a very stupid thing,” said Spock, “you would do better to remain in town.”

“Shut up, Spock! They hurt you. Where did they hurt you, let me see-”

“Get off my wagon.”

“Where are you hurt?”

“It is of little consequence, the injuries are sore but relatively minor-”

“Let me _see_ goddamnit!”

“ _Do not touch me._ ”

Spock shoved McCoy back, holding a hand out to keep him away. He was pale, his expression tight with pain, and McCoy felt the sickly beginnings of guilt spread through his chest.

“You let them beat the hell out of you because you saw I was being targeted too,” said McCoy, his voice soft, “the least I can do is make sure you’re okay.”

Spock’s expression was flat and empty.

“In doing so, you have managed to undo that which I set out to do in the first place - to keep you out of this. Congratulations Doctor, you have truly outdone yourself with your propensity for seeking out trouble.”

“That’s not fair, I’m trying to-”

“Help? Doctor, you do nothing but interfere in the name of ‘trying to help,’ and look where it has gotten us. Aside from your seemingly endless need to make me uncomfortable, you have now carelessly tossed aside the one thing I attempted to do out of… out of pity. For your feeble constitution.”

“My feeble - hey! Who’s feeble?” 

Spock’s attempt at pushing him away was clumsy at best - the man was a terrible liar, but he seemed determined to make his point. He glared at McCoy, his hand still raised to keep him back. McCoy sighed, and dug a little tin out of his pocket.

“This is an ointment for your bruising.”

He slid it over to Spock’s side of the driver’s seat.

“Its… well, it’s made of marigolds.”

Spock squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

“You cannot be here. Leave. Perhaps they have not yet noticed your absence.”

“Spread a good amount over any areas where bruising shows up-”

“ _Get the hell out of here, before I throw you off my wagon_!” shouted Spock. His eyes flew open and they were dark and furious, with a complete absence of any of the kindness they had previously held. McCoy held his gaze, calm and perfectly sure that this was all an act.

“Spock, you’re a goddamn liar and you’ve got to let me help you! I care about you, damnit!” 

For a moment, Spock’s expression changed. Surprise made him vulnerable, and in that split second his eyes went wide in awe and naked adoration. But the moment passed, and his expression steeled. With both hands, Spock grabbed McCoy by the jacket front and tossed him bodily over the side of the wagon. With a loud whistle, his horses set off again, this time off the road, at a far faster pace. Spock was clearly wary of being followed. 

McCoy lay sprawled on the road for some time as he watched the cloud of dust draw further and further away. His horse, Bessie, nudged at his shoulder. She was probably wondering what the hell he was doing sitting on the ground like that. He petted her nose and sighed.

“What’re we going to do about him, huh Bess?” he said. She snorted in reply, and he wished he could understand her, because he was all out of ideas.

*  
They were waiting for him when he rode back into town. In all truthfulness, McCoy had suspected they might be. A part of him kicked himself for not hanging on to Spock, not just running off with him then and there. It would have been so easy. Now he had to face up to the Sheriff. And his men. Mayor Tilley. And a new man, tall and stately and intimidatingly stony-faced. He was dressed immaculately in a smoothly pressed brown suit, with not a speck of dust on him anywhere. There was no question as to who the new man was. Spock’s father.

They stood in front of McCoy’s place. The Mayor and the Sheriff bore wide smirks on their faces, but Spock’s father betrayed nothing about his current state of mind.

There was an eerie kind of stillness to him, the same as Spock yet entirely different, because where Spock’s calm was soothing, his father had the opposite effect - his quiet demeanour signalled danger. 

“That’s the one, Mister Sarek,” said the Mayor, pointing at him. Sarek’s eyes scanned him from head to toe, then back up again, and Bessie took a few nervous step’s back, clearly as perturbed as he was by the scrutiny.

Sarek nodded, then with a flick of his wrist, the rest of the men converged on him. Hands grabbed Bessie by the bridle, who reared in terror, while others grabbed at him, dragging him off his horse. Dust filled his lungs and he coughed, though he made no attempt to struggle. He was many things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them. Where would he go?

The Sheriff’s men dragged him up to Sarek, holding him in position and forcing his chin up so that he would look him in the eye. Sarek looked down at him, and the side of his nose twitched into a small sneer, the only expression he had betrayed so far.

“You associate with my son,” said Sarek.

“You make it sound like we’re business partners,” muttered McCoy. Sarek raised an eyebrow at that, and drew the jar of peaches out of his pocket.

“My son’s taken a liking to you.”

McCoy opened his mouth to give him a rude retort, but his brain finally caught up with the reality of who he was speaking to, and he closed it again. Sarek held his gaze for a long moment, then pocketed the jar again.

“I require my son’s presence. You’re going to give me information on his whereabouts.”

“You sound so sure about that.” 

It just slipped out. McCoy clenched his teeth, willing himself to just _shut up_ for once.

“There’s only one road outta town, and that mail wagon ain’t exactly the fastest. I don’t reckon it’ll be a problem, catchin’ up with him,” said the Mayor. 

McCoy relaxed a little at that. If Spock had chosen the cross country route, then he was safe.

“Judging by Doctor McCoy’s reaction, I’m going to assume that my son has taken an alternate route,” said Sarek. McCoy went suddenly cold, the tips of his fingers growing numb from the sudden fear coursing through his system. No wonder Spock tried to show so little emotion, if this was what he’d grown up with. Jesus.

“What do we do with him while we’re out lookin’?” said the Sheriff. Sarek looked McCoy up and down again, taking in his trembling defiance.

“Lock him up until they find Spock. Maybe some time alone with his thoughts will loosen his tongue for us.”

This time, McCoy did fight as he was dragged away. Hands closed around his wrists and he twisted, but then there were more hands around his arms, and pulling at his shirt. He kicked out without looking, the dust making his eyes water, and his foot glanced off someone’s hip. There was a shout, and someone’s hand tangled in his hair, pulling him over so he was bent double. He couldn’t move his arms. Someone had his arms. Pushed, shoved towards the Sheriff’s office, he couldn’t do anything to stop it. It was out of his control. He couldn’t move without the movement being held in check, couldn’t lash out without reciprocation, and his rational mind took a back seat to the blind panic that made him thrash and scream. Any semblance of control he had was thrown to the wind as his thoughts turned from _warn Spock_ to _getoffgetoffgetOFF._ Someone struck him in the back with something hard - pain. His legs scrambled in the dust - another strike, this time against his head. Try to kick out - hit only air. They were probably trying to knock him out, the rational part of his brain supplied, the part that had retreated and watched him as if he were outside of his own struggling body. A tearing noise. The door to the Sheriff’s office. Bars. A hand around his neck - _get off_! 

Then suddenly he was lying on the floor as the cell door was shut firmly on him. He lay back and gasped for air, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to get his breath back. The logical part of him, the part that had retreated, observed that he was shaking all over. 

The Sheriff’s men were speaking to him. He registered the words, but the meaning was lost somewhere in his confusion, so that they came out as a string of disjointed syllables. From the tone of their voices though, it sounded like they were making fun of him. McCoy just lay there until they realised they wouldn’t get a reaction from him, and left.

There was sweat and gritty dust under his shirt collar and cuffs, and the slight chafing feeling of it was already beginning to grate at his sanity. His stomach churned with anxiety that clawed its way up his throat and threatened to make him sick. They were going to get Spock. God knows what was going to happen to the two of them once that happened. The thought of it was so abhorrent it manifested as a physical weight against his chest, one that threatened to overwhelm him. Once he was sure he was alone, he threaded his hands through his own hair and tugged as hard as he could, squeezing his eyes shut as he allowed the sensation to override everything else. Just for a few seconds. When he was done, he knelt in the middle of the cell, staring blankly into space, empty of all thought, all emotion, entirely numb.

*

It took them two days to find Spock. For most of that time, McCoy swung between bouts of restless energy that drove him to pace his cell, and moments of complete despair, where he found it entirely impossible to move. He was deliriously tired and hungry by the time they brought Spock in, but the sight of him, moving with as much dignity as he could muster with his arms tied around his back, was such a relief that none of it mattered.

“Spock!” he called, dodging as the Sheriff threw a mug at the bars, telling him to shut the hell up.

“Spock, I’m sorry-” he said. Spock silenced him with a hard stare, and he drew back.

“Yeah, you oughta be sorry,” said the Sheriff, opening the second cell and shoving Spock in, though he was met with little resistance.

“The Doc over here sang like a bird when we asked him where you were,” he said with a grin.

“Bullshit!” shouted McCoy, “you think he’s gonna believe that?”

“Doctor,” said Spock, and his voice was so worn, so utterly wrecked, that McCoy fell silent. 

The door opened, and Sarek swept in, dismissing the Sheriff with a tilt of his head. The Sheriff hurried out, leaving the three of them behind.

“Spock,” said Sarek, not looking at him. Spock sighed, sitting heavily on the bench on the far side of the cell.

“I will continue despite your lack of acknowledgement. You’re my son, despite our differences, and I don’t wish any harm on you, or your doctor friend.”

“You have an unusual way in expressing this sentiment, as I can see that the doctor has indeed been harmed, in a multitude of ways.”

Sarek waved this comment away with a flick of his wrist.

“It was necessary to take steps to make sure he understood the seriousness of the situation, especially if we’d ended up needing his help finding you.”

Spock didn’t reply, though the eyes that followed his father’s movements were murderous in their poorly concealed rage.

“Why did you come here?” said Spock.

“You think of me as some kind of monster, don’t you?” said Sarek with a sigh. Now that the doors were closed, he looked smaller somehow. Tired, like his son. 

“A man who orders murders from others is not only a murderer himself, he is a coward,” said Spock quietly.

“It’s not as simple as that and you know it,” replied Sarek, his tone biting. He paused, took a deep breath, and composed himself.

“Your mother has gone missing.”

Spock stood, and swiftly made his way to the front of the cell. His hands gripped the bars hard.

“Elaborate.”

“I think she’s been - I _know_ she’s been taken. I…” Sarek’s throat closed over the rest of the sentence, and he swallowed.

“You require my help,” said Spock. His voice had gone very soft.

“You are the only person whom I can trust not to betray your mother for ulterior motives,” said Sarek, “I do not miss the irony in you being the only one who does not have something to gain from my loss, in this particular situation.”

Spock slammed his hands against the bars of the cell, the rattling noise clanging through the office.

“You know I cannot decline.”

“Nobody can know what you’re doing. And that you’re working for me.”

“The opportunity to divorce myself further from your influence is a welcome one.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Sarek approached Spock’s cell, and passed him several objects. First, a yellow envelope containing all the information they had so far on his wife’s whereabouts. Second, the keys to the cells. And third, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the jar of peach preserves.

“You have always found it difficult to make friends, my son. Keep this one close, he is loyal, and gentle. He may be of use to you.”

“You speak of my friend as though he is a commodity.”

Sarek sighed and bowed his head. For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to say something more, but instead he swept towards the door.

“I will detain the Sheriff and his men on the other side of town. I suggest you use this time to take your leave of this place. Head north, and once you are certain you haven't been followed, the contents of that envelope will set you in the right direction.”

“Goodbye, Sarek,” said Spock.

“Goodbye, my son.”

The door closed behind him, and Spock was already unlocking his cell, and then McCoy’s with a near frantic speed. He threw the door open and McCoy surged towards him, holding him by the elbows, checking him for injuries. Spock submitted to this for a few moments before he came to his senses.

“I am unharmed. Your ointment did much to relieve the bruising.”

“Let me be the judge of that-”

“We have no time, we must watch for the opportune moment to leave. You have a horse?”

“Bessie! Christ, yeah, I hope she’s alright.”

As it turned out from a glance out the window, Bessie was fine. She was conveniently tethered out the front of the Sheriff’s office, and seemed happy to see him. Next to her was a slightly larger gray horse that McCoy didn’t recall having seen before. Both of them were saddled and ready to go.

“My father has left those, I am sure of it.”

“He doesn’t fuck around, huh.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at him, but did not reply.

“So what’s the plan? We hop on the horses, skip down, lose their trail, then… find your mother?”

“I will find my mother. You will go to the nearest town where it is safe, and lie low until I can arrange for my father to relocate you.”

“Now wait just one minute! You don’t think I’m gonna let you go off on your own to try and find some… some kidnapper or whatever all on your lonesome?”

“That was my intention, yes,” replied Spock.

“Well let me tell you something, _Spock._ We’ve already tried splittin’ up, and look where it got us! I don’t trust you to stay out of trouble as far as I can throw you.”

Spock seemed to wrestle with this thought for a moment, his brow deeply furrowed as he considered it.

“You will not place yourself in harm’s way on my account.”

McCoy sighed, and placed his hand on Spock’s arm. He hadn’t realised how tense the other man was until he seemed to melt under his touch, the rigid shoulders relaxing and his eyes fluttering closed, just for a moment.

“You know neither of us can make that promise,” he said. Spock looked away and nodded.

“I have been… haunted by our last exchange,” he said, keeping his eye on the window. Sarek was speaking to one of the Sheriff’s men, gesturing towards the other end of the street. McCoy waited for him to continue.

“I said that I acted for you out of pity. I lied.”

“I know,” said McCoy with a smile, “you’re a pretty terrible liar, it was actually-”

“Please do not turn this into a joke,” pleaded Spock, the words sounding like they were being torn from him. He covered McCoy’s hand on his arm with his own.

“Okay,” breathed McCoy, squeezing gently, “alright.”

“Thank you.”

Spock’s eyes faced his own for a moment, and for the first time since they’d met, he smiled. McCoy couldn’t help but be entranced by the warmth that suddenly emanated from his expression.

“They are gone. We must move.”

McCoy snapped back to the present and ran after Spock, the two of them racing out the door and rushing to the horses. They heard somebody shout, but they were already on their way out, leaving a trail of dust as they left the town behind. McCoy knew that logically he should have been terrified for whatever was about to happen next, but as he looked over at Spock, the wind whipping his hair and clothes into a mess like it had been that first night they’d met, his heart filled with a surge of affection he hadn't realised he'd been holding back. There was danger on the horizon, and they would catch up to it soon, but right now? Right now, he felt lighter than he had in a very long time. He felt free.


End file.
